A Candle's Flicker
by palomino333
Summary: Set during "The Changing Face of Evil" of Deep Space Nine. After the attack on Earth by the Breen, Admiral McCoy receives a call from Romulus. Slash.


Author's Notes: Written for Spiced Peaches LI. McCoy's mandala and clock, as well as a mention of him crying in front of Spock at Kirk's funeral, are taken from the novelization of _Star Trek: Generations_ by J.M. Dillard. Uncut version of this is on AO3.

* * *

The image seared itself into his mind: San Francisco, utterly devastated.

McCoy chided himself, knowing that it could be far worse. The Breen had been driven off by Earth's defenses, disallowing for a full-scale invasion to occur. Still, the sight of the Golden Gate bridge, split down the middle, and Starfleet Headquarters, reduced to ruins, was horrific. There hadn't been time to take in the damage, however, as the wounded needed attending to. Burying himself in his work, unfortunately, hadn't necessarily proved a viable option, his lack of physical ability rendering him more of a director of operations than an actual surgeon.

Bodies, most of them distorted, lay under blood-soaked sheets. These things just didn't happen.

"You have a message, sir." The ensign that reported to him appeared out of sorts, his expression and words tight. Exhausted, and having just changed out of his operating scrubs, McCoy had been ready to tell the ensign that it could wait when the young man rushed to finish, "It's from Romulus, sir."

"I'll take it in my office. Get going," he replied curtly. Nodding, the ensign rushed off down the hospital corridor, his boot skidding slightly on the floor.

"Admiral McCoy," Spock greeted from his viewscreen, "I'm relieved to see that you are unharmed."

McCoy's fist clenched in annoyance. "Spock, knock it off. We've been married for decades, for God's sake."

Spock shook his head. "It's out of respect that I greeted you in that manner."

McCoy decided against arguing the point, as it would have been in bad taste. "Glad to see you're still in one piece, darling. Would it kill you to call more often?" He joked with a slight smirk. Transmissions were easier to receive from Romulus now, given the turned tide of relations between the Romulan Empire and the Federation. Strange, that, considering how, within McCoy's own lifetime, he had, at one point, no knowledge of what a Romulan looked like.

Spock, despite the formality of his words, couldn't fool him. He could hear the slight catch in his tone, as well as the quicker cadence of his voice. Though, it was subtle enough for someone who did not know him so well to miss. But perhaps that was the point. Romulus had taken Spock for several years, with encrypted messages slipping through to McCoy every so often. Their link had worn ragged from time, and emotional stress. Starfleet hadn't approved of Spock's rather cowboy form of diplomacy, and McCoy, on more than one occasion, had been questioned on his husband's movements. "If I knew, I'd tell," was his common refrain, though it was not necessarily truthful.

The encryptions, once he'd figured out how to decode them, displayed Spock's progress on Romulus, as well as an undercurrent of frustration whenever progress was halted, or a skirmish between Romulus and the Federation occurred. The codes themselves leaned toward the poetic, evoking words from individuals such as Whitman or T'sahen. McCoy was especially annoyed by the latter, finding it hard to hold his eyes open while reading Vulcan poetry. Nonetheless, he appreciated the sentiment.

Reaching out to him through their bond, he'd felt frustratingly little, with Spock forcing himself to keep his mind clear. On other occasions, however, he did feel doubt, as well as a sense of loneliness. Though, McCoy wasn't egotistical enough to think that he had merely missed him. He'd thought on more than one occasion about that mission long ago, where Spock, while undercover, had been tempted by a Romulan commander. Yet, Spock always came back to him.

It wasn't genuine desire for reunification that had brought the Romulans to the side of the Federation, rather it had been an alliance of convenience. While it was logical, perhaps that was also disappointing to Spock. However, to not seize upon a practical solution at hand would have been unwise. Romulus, it seemed, didn't change, or, at least, not in a way that favored the Federation. It had crossed his mind on more than one occasion to tell Spock that it was foolhardy, but he had let it go. Partially, it was out of disgust at himself for considering saying that to him. Spock was as stubborn as he was, and likely, the Vulcan would die of boredom on Earth. Still, it seemed that, since Kirk's death, Spock acted more like him.

That final night on board the Enterprise, Kirk had presented McCoy with a clock. It still ticked away on his mantle in Georgia, reminding him that nothing, no matter how treasured it was, was ever permanent. Spock's gift, the Vulcan mandala, rested within his pocket. More often now, Leonard had felt half-compelled to dash Spock's token against the desk, or wall, railing against the logical lines of thought it promoted. Everything that they had accomplished was whittled away before them. He'd thought of Gorkon as the last chance for peace in their time, and had agonized over having him die in his arms. Then he was left in the frozen wastes of Rura Penthe with a crime that he and Jim didn't commit. Out of sight, out of mind.

XXXXXX

Stripping the fur coat and dirty uniform from himself, he saw the dirt, blood, and bruising on his body. Under the warm water of the shower, he caught his breath, realizing that he and Jim were still alive, and that Spock was close by. Their bond had been drawn to its limits, and he was hit painfully with the fact that their mental connection could not verify location. The warm water ran down his arms and legs gently, contrasting the harsh shoves and hits he'd suffered at the prison camp. Spock's care for him, taking the form of strained concern, had felt at first like a small consolation, and then like a burden, making his surroundings seem darker, and more enclosed.

He slumped down in his desk chair with a tired sigh, clad in a new uniform. Funny, that, how new clothing could easily be created, but bodies could not be. Feeling the Vulcan's arms about his shoulders, he asked, "So, how was it?" Spock said nothing, and McCoy continued, "Knowing that I might not come back?" The old wound, from that radiation room, was tugged back open, and Spock gripped him tightly. It was their own pride that had allowed them to nearly lose each other, McCoy thinking he'd deterred Spock from entering that room, and Spock having faith in Valeris.

Tension crackled between them for a moment, and McCoy, the back of his hand bearing a bruise on it, grasped his fingers. Tugging Spock's hand free, he brought the pads of his fingers to his lips, and kissed them. He slipped the tips into his mouth, and Spock drew in a breath. Licking over them, he thought on the hours he had been allowed to sleep on a sparse bunk, curled tightly against Kirk for warmth. Shadows danced upon the walls as he lay awake, contemplating the world above.

Spock's hand grasping his shoulder was the only warning he would get. Tugged up, he gritted his teeth. Spock immediately let go of him. "It's all right, darling. I'm just sore," he reassured him, "I'm not as young as I used to be." Just for a moment, he felt fear flicker to him. Spock's grip on his emotions, it seemed, was beginning to loosen with age. "Let it go," he whispered, "It's only you and me."

"You are the one in need of reassurance," Spock corrected, guiding Leonard about to look at him.

McCoy shrugged. "Comes with the job. Hard to shake the habit." He turned his eyes away when he mentioned his profession, however, and Spock raised his hand to cup his cheek.

"T'hy'la, I know you," he reassured gently, "You gave your greatest attempt to save him."

"It doesn't change anything," he responded. The humiliation he had felt in that court room burned through his memory. There was no logic to it, merely emotional outrage, but McCoy didn't quite care at this point.

Spock kissed his cheek, and moved to his neck. McCoy leaned his head back with a pleasured groan. "Quit trying to distract me," he muttered.

"I would consider this a balancing of the scales, if I were you, doctor," he responded, "for as distracting a presence as you have been to me, over the years." And for a moment, Spock felt McCoy's fascination, despite it all, with being able to work on Klingon anatomy. He mentally reached out to grasp the doctor from the darkness. Regret clung to them, and he clasped his hand within it.

McCoy stumbled backwards, and smirked against Spock's lips. "Love," he growled, playfully, "I just got dressed."

Spock placed his fingers against the front of his tunic, and paused. McCoy caught a slight smirk on the Vulcan's face. Grasping Spock by the collar, McCoy tugged him down for a kiss. His other hand unwound the robe's sash. Spock held out his arms, and allowed the robe to fall to the floor behind him. He groaned into McCoy's mouth as he felt the doctor's hands gently running over his chest, and down his sides. He recalled how, soaking wet after their jubilant swim following the release of the humpback whales, Leonard had stroked and massaged each part of his body in a shared shower, remapping places he had once touched to anchor him back to reality. But there was something different in this, perhaps frustration. And both knew that there would be an end to it; Leonard couldn't stay angry with him. Still, as he felt the insistent nips on his lips, and stroking and tweaking of his nipples, he was reminded of the anguish that had bled through the bond, McCoy suffering somewhere that he could not see, and his desperate search to find him and Kirk.

He stepped backward, the pads of his feet brushing softly over the floor, and McCoy's boots clacking after him.

XXXXXX

Staring listlessly up at the pale, clean ceiling, McCoy felt the moments quietly go by, his fingers twined with Spock's as their hearts beat in differing places.

He sighed, and nuzzled more closely into Spock's neck. "We can't keep doing this."

"We're of different worlds, Leonard," Spock reminded him gently. Leonard looked up at him at that. Spock covered his hand, and squeezed it, indicating that he understood.

McCoy propped himself up on his elbow. "Come home with me."

"We are home," he replied, touching the side of his arm.

"Until they decommission us."

Those blue eyes of his caused him to pause. He'd thought he would not see them again, his last glimpse of them being widened in fear during the show trial. Now they were beseeching. "I must return to Vulcan first, to speak with my father. But then I will return to you. I intend to live nowhere else."

McCoy felt the veracity of his statement, and smirked. "Guess I was the guy your father warned you about, wasn't I?"

"He acknowledges that I am of sound mind to make my own decisions. That is enough," he replied.

McCoy lay against his bare chest, and shut his eyes. Spock shared with him a conjured image of the two on Vulcan, the heat rising. Cracking open an eye, McCoy glanced about, and shook his head at the sight of a gauze curtain hanging from the cross bar of the four-poster bed they lay within. "Hopeless romantic," he muttered, curling closer into him as Spock, on the physical plane, drew the blanket over them.

XXXXXX

Frankly, it felt as if it was all a bad joke, all the sacrifices he and the others had made leading to nothing. As an added insult, the fact remained that the Federation's alliance with the Klingon Empire, something that he and Kirk had nearly died for, had been lost, even if for a short time.

He'd shed tears before Spock at Kirk's funeral, much to his own embarrassment. There had been a distance between each other, then, with Spock handling matters on Vulcan. After the somber affair, McCoy had stood outside the chapel, and watched the other former crew members depart, an unsure silence having fallen over them.

A hand had appeared on his shoulder. "Leaving again?" McCoy inquired dryly.

"Not this time."

Turning, he glanced over his shoulder at Spock, his features hardened by grief and the years. The hand slipped from his shoulder, and McCoy grasped it. "Come on, let's go home."

Spock kept to his word, not desiring to live elsewhere long-term. That, however, had said nothing about work. McCoy had understood that, as he had no room to talk. He'd thought he would retire from Starfleet, but his medical expertise had been needed.

McCoy's house was old and tended to creak. What first had proved an annoyance became a familiarity. Hearing his husband's footsteps moving over the floor gave him a sense of comfort. However, Spock found it to be too much of a disturbance, and often meditated outside in the garden. The house felt slightly off whenever Spock was gone. Pouring himself a drink at the kitchen table, Kirk's clock chiming the hour at two in the morning, Leonard glanced over a PADD, and quietly listened to the groans about him. While he'd heavily disliked the higher tech of the transporters, as well as parts of the ship, he felt out of his depth upon returning to Earth. He couldn't stay grounded forever.

"How are the others?" Spock inquired.

"Just shaken," McCoy answered, "Sulu's taking it the hardest of them. Can't say I blame him, as it's his hometown."

"I'll be sure to offer him my condolences," he replied genuinely, "I received the casualty report."

Leonard folded his hands, and placed his chin down upon them. Bitterly, he inquired, "Would they be considered the many? Over one thousand dead? Of course not."

Spock was silent for a moment, taking in McCoy's exhaustion, and utter frustration. His response was firm, but far from unsympathetic. "They were lives, unnecessarily wasted. The Federation must bury its dead, but others are also continuing to fall."

"Think we'll make it this time?" McCoy inquired quietly, straightening up.

There wasn't information Spock could share with him over this channel now, and McCoy knew better than to figure that he would attempt to send him anything else. He could get away with it during times of fragile peace, but a time of outright war was out of the question.

Leonard had felt more protective of him, since carrying his _katra_ , though even he had to admit he wouldn't be of much help. His arthritis had grown too acute, and he moved too slowly. His body was continuing to break down, and thinking on that was not only depressing, but pointless. Everything died eventually, or by pure accident, and he was no exception. He'd asked Spock about death before, and hadn't gotten an answer. Perhaps the question had been too personal for his disoriented state. He'd let him go, realizing that the question was genuinely bothering him.

Lying beside him, however, McCoy realized that there was a reason Spock gripped him tightly from time to time, panting hard, and his teeth gritted. Grasping his shoulder, and shaking him, he yelled at him to wake up. Spock's grip would slacken upon him in embarrassment, and Leonard, with a tired sigh, would draw him back into his arms, and collapse upon the pillow.

He figured that he was probably giving Spock subtle emotional influence, the longer that they were together, but if Spock would have wanted to leave him, he could have. Spock wasn't a fool, and didn't do anything by halves. If he'd been concerned over whether their bond would damage him, he wouldn't have done it, much less with so volatile a partner.

"Are you asking me for another guess, t'hy'la?" He inquired.

Leonard nearly corrected him on missing his rhetorical question, but he understood his ulterior meaning. "You talked with one of them?"

Spock shook his head. "I was talked at by the Vorta. I find the Romulans to be more pleasurable company by comparison."

"Should've known," McCoy replied with a sigh, "Don't get too cozy."

"It would be a gilded cage," he replied, holding out his arms to indicate the room in which he sat, "However, I can leave due to my connections that bind me to the Federation, not least of which being my marriage to an admiral."

McCoy's eyes widened as he understood the double meaning of Spock's greeting. "Darling," he leaned forward, "just come back to me, please."

Spock nodded solemnly. "I fully intend to do so."

"Good," he tapped his fingers moodily, "And if you're stupid enough to get yourself killed again, I don't care if I have to walk to Vulcan. I will drag you back to life, and I'll make damn well sure that you won't hear the end of it afterward!"

Spock raised an eyebrow at the illogicality of McCoy's exclamation, but said nothing on it. As Spock gathered himself to speak again, McCoy realized too late that perhaps he had revealed more than he had intended. Reaching into his pocket, he quietly pulled out the mandala, and placed it on the desk, the copper worn completely green, and bearing a few scuff marks. The surface was beginning to crack from age. Spock's eyes were drawn to the token as McCoy's withered fingers drew softly across the surface.

"We go together, or not at all!" Spock had yelled to him over the howling of the wind, back on Sarpeidon.

No promises could be made in the middle of a war. Losing Kirk had displayed their mortality. McCoy himself had said at Kirk's funeral that he felt genuinely sorry for Spock, in that the Vulcan would outlive all his shipmates. Still, there had been many years left, between them. But now, they were almost out of time, and it was too dangerous to move.

"Forgive me," Spock murmured, staring down at the token.

"Nothing to forgive," he replied, "Your side of the bed's still how you left it. The great-grandkids have been asking after their hobgoblin great-grandpa again."

That earned him a slight smirk. Spock wasn't comfortable with having human children tugging on him, especially when he could hear their thoughts, disjointed as they were, but he had eventually warmed to his stepfamily, in his own way.

The smirk disappeared, and he could feel Spock's concern drifting over to him, once again. He folded his arms, and remarked defensively, "Don't worry about me. I'm fine. You're still in the thick of things," he sighed, and shook his head, "I just had to pick the Vulcan who continuously puts his ass on the line."

"Leonard," he cautioned, "You can't lie to me."

He groaned heavily. "Spock, not now. We have more important things to worry about."

"'Physician, heal thyself.' Is that not the saying on Earth?" Spock inquired.

McCoy snorted. "I ain't ill, just old. There's a difference. The human body can only take so much." Amanda had been an example of that. He pushed away the thought. "That aside, if the Dominion catches you, then that'll be the end of it. I've exhausted the options I've had from pulling strings for you during your cowboy antics."

Silence passed between them. "What would you suggest, then, Ashayam?" Spock asked quietly.

"Let go of me."

"I cannot," he replied flatly.

"You don't have a choice," he answered firmly. His younger self would have been happy to see Spock leave after one of their harsher arguments, "I'll be here on Earth for you. I can promise you that much."

"Interesting," Spock commented, "how our point of views have changed."

McCoy put his face in his hand, and shook his head at Spock's conjecture. He felt humor from his mate at the balance being reset. Dropping his hand, he muttered, "Don't hold your breath. My suggestion: enjoy your freedom while you can. When you do return, I'm not letting you back over the threshold."

"I find that preferable."

McCoy outright grinned, and felt, just for a moment, his husband's hope.


End file.
